


haven't been home in a year or more

by shepherd



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Other: See Story Notes, Stitches, Trigger Warnings, World of Ruin, content warnings, more hurt than comfort sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 14:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20977583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shepherd/pseuds/shepherd
Summary: “Ssh,” he said gently. Like cooing to a wild, feral animal. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”Ignis bared his teeth. Stomach still flexing, he averted his desperate eyes.Gladio withdrew. He washed the rag out again. Blood spiralled in the water, deep red to pale pink and Gladio rung it out. The cloth almost returned to its miserable, uniform grey.





	haven't been home in a year or more

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for blood/general injury, and stitches performed with no pain relief. Offhand mention of alcohol.
> 
> Apologies for this fill - this was originally written in mind for day three of Hug Ignis Week, for the prompt injury recovery. However, this doesn't really fill the prompt as it's not concerning recovery or really contain that much comfort. It's not appropriate to post for the week, but I'll be posting it anyway with no connection to the celebration.
> 
> Feel free to skip if it's not your thing. I'm still 50-50 on posting anyway so I might even remove it later.

With a sharp twist of his hands, hot water thundered back to the bucket. Steam rose from his rag and curled before Gladio’s eyes. It remained hot enough to scald skin. He waited for it to cool impatiently and tried to ignore the great, heaving breaths from behind him.

There was still blood underneath his nails. They were growing out too long again. Gladio picked thoughtlessly at the rough skin on his old, worn hands and wondered when time had gotten so fast. With every blink, his days seemed to pass, and the lines etched deeper into his skin. The water drizzled from his wrists, soaking even his rolled-up sleeves.

“Gimme a sec,” he grunted, and wrung out the rag again. It was cooler, cleaner, and Gladio turned back to Ignis’ prone form.

His chest rose sharply and fell hard. The tense muscles of his belly contracted again and again. The skin was swollen and puckered, and the stitches were not his neatest work. It had been a long time. Gladio had never been known for his steady hands, nor his gentle touch, but so far from the lights of home they had no other choice.

The wound began at Ignis’ belly button and curved all the way to his hip. It carved deep, a sole scratch from a furious goblin in the final throes of death. Blood stained Ignis’ shredded clothes – his shirt was long since ruined, ripped anxiously open by Gladio’s urgent hands – and smeared across his belly. The stretch of ruined skin was pale, and it had taken everything with Gladio to not rear around and punch the wall with a cry.

Anger was not useful. Gladio had to be useful. So, he began at the belly button instead. Placing the warm rag gently down he felt Ignis’ sigh, of pleasure at the warmth or anxiety from the thrum of pain. The man’s brows knit; expression clearly fearful. But there was no room for kindness. Gladio exhaled and smoothed across the line of the stitched closed wound.

Ignis grunted. He reared up only to recoil away, caught up in the pain. A potion would have done him the world of good, knitting the skin and relieving his pain. These days all Gladio could offer was a mouthful of whiskey. Gladio washed away the blood as carefully as he could over the fresh stitches. Though he heaved, Ignis kept himself under his considerable control, heaving and nostrils flaring.

“Ssh,” he said gently. Like cooing to a wild, feral animal. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Ignis bared his teeth. Stomach still flexing, he averted his desperate eyes.

Gladio withdrew. He washed the rag out again. Blood spiralled in the water, deep red to pale pink and Gladio rung it out. The cloth almost returned to its miserable, uniform grey.

It was difficult to see in the weak, unnatural light. The batteries in his lantern were weakening fast but could stand a few hours yet, enough for Ignis to rest. It might have been foolhardy, making the awful feeling of dread sicken his gut, but they had no other choice. Gladio didn’t dare work by flashlight. Gods knew it wouldn’t be enough to save them. The lanterns cast a dim, sickly light, just enough to see the glow and sheen of sweat across Ignis’ skin. His hair was flat and miserable, too long and needing a cut, soaked with grease. His eyes were still open. They hadn’t closed, not once, even when Gladio had slayed the beast that had him pinned. It had damn near splattered them both, ichor dark against the stone.

It had taken time but the dazed, frightened look had been shaken from him. Pain was the ultimate motivator. The cloudy, tepid look narrowed as he gazed toward the wall and Ignis’ jaw had set, teeth grinding.

Gladio took pity. He reached under his chair and grasped the neck of his flask. There was very little alcohol remaining. “Here,” he grunted, but Ignis bared his teeth and shook his head.

“I don’t need it,” he lied, and there was blood against his teeth. His fist was clenched, nails caught within his flesh. “Gladio –”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, and swapped the flask back for the rag. In the chill of the night it had gone cold again – when it met the sallow skin Ignis gave a full body flinch, surprised. “Shit. Sorry.”

With a few careful wipes the rest of the blood was gone. Already the closed wound appeared much better. Smaller and better knit, Gladio happier with the look of it. It had helped how Ignis forced himself still and allowed himself only to scream into a rag of his own, and Gladio was almost sick with the guilt and nausea. Guts twisting, he swallowed down the worst of it, and sealed his lover’s flesh as best he could.

_I told you so,_ he wanted to say. But they each carried their own scars. Some smooth and pink like the one on Ignis’ index finger from a childhood of attempting to pet childhood cats. Others were knotted and white, raised on skin like the scars that Prompto hid away and never spoke of. It was life, the ugliness and the pain, and Gladio would not add to the distance that often stretched between them.

He dropped the filthy rag to the floor. It was hard in the moment to remember what Cor had taught him, so long ago, but he needed to dry the wound off and find a clean enough cover. There likely wouldn’t be enough alcohol for disinfectant – it was another day, another struggle, but Gladio would get them through.

He reached forward. Ignis’ hair was filthy, matted like the fur of a wild dog. Gladio stroked over it, hand shaking, and when Ignis gave no protest he leaned forward and kissed him, and he tasted like blood.

“Just a little more,” he said, and Ignis could only quake, but Gladio gripped his hand and pulled him through.


End file.
